


5-3

by brynnmck



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Baseball, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10070123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: Kris doesn't mean to steal the trophy, it just sort of happens. One minute he's in the clubhouse, surrounded by yelling and laughter and music and bodies and the sweet-sour scent of champagne, and the next thing he knows, he's in the visiting manager's office. Even under the crappy fluorescent lights, the trophy gleams on the desk in front of him, and he stares at the neat arc of gold pennants and the spot on the base where his team's name is going to go and tries to make himself believe that it's real.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dugrival](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dugrival/gifts).



> I know we're probably somewhat past the time for post-World Series makeouts--I started this back in November and then Events Transpired and I wasn't feeling much like writing, but I found it in my WIP folder recently and it was closer to finished than I remembered, and my darling Dugrival's birthday was coming up, so. Here we are! I'm relatively new to the Cubs bandwagon, so if I messed anything up here, I apologize. Dugrival, I love you very very much, and here's to FINALLY figuring out that we should find an NL team to root for together. <33333

Kris doesn't mean to steal the trophy, it just sort of happens. One minute he's in the clubhouse, surrounded by yelling and laughter and music and bodies and the sweet-sour scent of champagne, and the next thing he knows, he's in the visiting manager's office. Even under the crappy fluorescent lights, the trophy gleams on the desk in front of him, and he stares at the neat arc of gold pennants and the spot on the base where his team's name is going to go and tries to make himself believe that it's real.

He's not sure how long he's been doing that when there's a soft knock at the door; he jumps a little, turns around and isn't surprised to see Rizzo ducking inside.

"Hey, KB." Rizzo doesn't really have an off switch, so much, but he does have a volume control, and it's turned down low now, questioning. His eyes are still _holy shit_ bright, though, in a way that would be blinding if it weren't so warm. As always, Kris finds himself wanting to lean toward it. "I was wondering where you went. You good?"

Kris looks at him--faint goggle rings on his temples, the bulge of the last-out ball still safe in his back pocket, the t-shirt that reads _World Series Champions_ because that's what they are and that's what they'll always be, for the rest of their lives and for the rest of history, they did it, they actually fucking did it--and his eyes burn and it bubbles up and over inside his throat, and he just starts laughing.

Of course, that sets Rizzo off, too, and then they can't seem to stop, caught in new updrafts of hysteria every time they look at each other. Kris has to brace himself on the desk with one hand to keep from falling over, and Rizzo is wheezing, leaning against the closed door.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he gasps finally, "dumb question." As he's wiping his eyes, they flicker up and focus somewhere behind Kris' head, and when Kris turns, he sees himself on the TV suspended in the corner of the room. They're showing that clip again, the slow-motion one where he gathers up the final out.

"Look at you, smiling the whole time, you freak," Rizzo says fondly, moving a couple of steps closer. "That's some balls, dude, I was shitting myself."

Kris chuckles--his cheeks are aching at this point, but he can't help it--and lifts a shoulder. "I don't know, man, I just knew." A lot of the night is a blur, but there are moments etched so sharply that he'll wear them forever, like tattoos on his senses: The crack of each ball headed over the fence. The unmistakable feeling of the plate under his cleats as he slid into home. J-Hey's voice in the weight room while the tarp blanketed the infield, _I love you guys, and I'd hate to see you end this being anything besides yourselves_ , and the growing answering rumble from the rest of them as the determination built into an almost physical force. And then the ball skipping toward him off Martinez's bat, like something right out of his childhood backyard fantasies; it had felt like the most ridiculous gift, that all he needed in order to make himself, his teammates, and millions of people ecstatic was to do something he'd done a hundred thousand times in his life.

"Watching you make that scoop, I was just thinking _be ready be ready be ready_ \--I didn't want to Buckner it and fuck everything up," Rizzo is saying. "Did I say thanks for the high throw, by the way? 'Cause that really helped." He's still grinning, nothing but affection in his tone.

"Hey, I was the one who had to run on wet grass, all you had to do was stand there," Kris fires back, and he's grinning too. In fact, it's entirely possible that that's just how his face is now, forever. He shoves Rizzo's shoulder. "Anyway, I knew you had it. You always do."

Rizzo ducks his head a little and beams, like he often does when someone compliments him. It's like a blush without the blush, and Kris loves it. "You did, huh?"

"Dude. Of course." It's the simple truth--as much confidence as Kris has in his own abilities and preparation, he has that much more in Rizzo's. As soon as the ball was in flight, some part of him had known it was over.

"Five-three, baby," Rizzo says, and although his expression stays mostly the same, there's a flash of… something in his eyes, something that makes the breath clog in Kris' throat and makes him hyper-aware of every millimeter of space between them. He's felt this before, maybe a couple of dozen times over the past two years, but it's amplified now, sparking over nerves already left raw. It's enough to throw him off balance, like an emotional double-clutch, and before he can get his feet set under him, Rizzo clears his throat and gestures toward the open bottle of champagne sitting on the desk.

"So, did you get your adult beverage yet?"

Still struggling to shift gears, Kris blinks at it; he must have had some in his hand when he'd come in here. "I didn't, actually." He's certainly been _around_ a lot of champagne in the past few weeks, but it's been more of a weather event than a drink--he hasn't deliberately put any in his mouth yet.

And he's expecting some ribbing about that, but Rizzo just asks mildly, "Change your mind?"

He sounds genuinely curious, and somehow it's _that_ that does Kris in, because being around Rizzo might push him to be a better player, but Rizzo never pushes Kris to be anything other than himself. And that's why, as sure as that ball tumbling into his glove, he can suddenly see what happens next with perfect clarity.

He reaches out to wrap his fingers around the bottle. It's still vaguely cool, the neck slick with condensation. With Rizzo watching, he tilts his head back, holds the bottle to his mouth, and tips the liquid down his throat. He feels it more than tastes it, the buzz of the carbonation echoing the charge that's humming through his body. When he brings the bottle down, he sees Rizzo's tongue swipe across his lower lip.

"So what's the verdict?" he asks, his voice ragged around the edges in a way that Kris is pretty sure isn't just about post-game shouting.

Kris offers him the bottle. "You tell me."

Rizzo raises an eyebrow--it's far from _his_ first drink of the night, so his opinion should be pretty well-formed by now--but he takes the bottle and takes a healthy swig anyway. One excellent thing about going sober to bars with the guys is that Kris has been in full command of his senses for many moments like this one, the way Rizzo's mouth shapes itself around the rim, the way his throat moves as he swallows. Only this time, when Rizzo's done drinking, and his lips are wet and his eyes are bright and hot, Kris takes the bottle out of his hand, sets it on the desk, steps right into Rizzo's space and kisses him.

It turns out that having two of the things he's wanted most in his life fulfilled in the same night is just a bit overwhelming, and Kris feels the brief terror and giddy shock of it like he fell off a cliff and found out he could fly. He takes it slow at first, exploring, and as usual, Rizzo's right there with the perfect pick: he kisses back eagerly but easily, with only the low sound in his throat and his hand fisting in the fabric at Kris' hip to betray how much he's holding back. But Kris is determined to take his time--pretty much since he'd been called up, he's fantasized about this, that his superstitious sobriety would somehow end in Rizzo's mouth. He chases the champagne flavor down along the stubbled line of Rizzo's jaw, to the hollow of his neck, salt mixing with sweet. He can feel Rizzo's pulse pounding under his tongue, and the competitor in him starts to growl--he wants to see just how hard and fast he can make it race.

Before he does that, though, he needs to check in, so he forces himself to pull back. He's got a whole Jessica-approved speech prepared, about next steps and team first and friends always. Rizzo's pupils are wide and dark, and that's definitely something new, but his mouth is curved into the same delighted, mischievous smile that's been the highlight of more of Kris' days than he can count, and Kris realizes he might as well have worked up a speech to tell the world that it should be round.

"Whew." Rizzo sounds like he's just done a sprint. He runs his hand up over Kris' stomach to his sternum, smoothing the logo over his chest. "World Series and now this? I'm gonna be so pissed when my alarm goes off."

Kris is surprised to find out he's still got enough breath left to laugh. Rizzo is so close to him, so close and solid and warm and Kris can actually touch him back for once and know that it means what he wants it to; it takes every shred of discipline he has to make his mouth keep forming words instead of finding out what Rizzo's skin feels like under his teeth. "Hey, so." He compromises by pressing their foreheads together, leaning into the touch. They're both champagne-sticky, which is a little gross but mostly reassuring in its reality, because if Kris has to wake up from this, he's never getting over it. "I talked to Jess a while ago, and she's cool with this, but what about Emily?"

Rizzo coughs slightly. "Well, actually, funny story about that…."

And okay, that's motivation to put enough space between them for a suspicious glare. "Funny how?"

"No, no," Rizzo rushes on, "it's nothing bad, just… remember that Brewers series back at the beginning of September, when Jessica and Emily flew out?"

"Yeah." Kris wracks his brain for any memory of weirdness. They'd dropped the series, he remembers that, and after the final game, the four of them had gone out to dinner to chase the taste of it out of their mouths.

"Okay, so remember how you had to step outside to take that call?"

"Yeah," Kris says again, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, while you were gone, it kind of came up that maybe you and I should… y'know." He shrugs and waves a hand. "This."

"It _kind of came up_?" Kris repeats, his voice spiraling up in disbelief. He doesn't exactly have a mental transcript of that night, but he's pretty sure he'd remember anything along the lines of _Hey, speaking of making out with your best friend...._

"Dude, they ambushed me!" Rizzo protests. "As soon as you walked away, one minute they were talking about _House of Cards_ , the next minute they were all,"--he pitches his voice high, sounding like neither Jessica nor Emily--"'Anthony, we wanted you to know that if you and Kris ever want to just hook up with each other already, we're fine with that.'"

Kris' jaw drops. "They did not."

"Hand to God," Rizzo says, with the gesture to match. "I guess they'd been talking about it for a while, and they apparently decided that an Asian fusion restaurant in Milwaukee was the best place to spring it on me."

"Wow." Kris blinks, trying to take that in. "I… wow."

"I know, right?" Both hands are involved now, out at his sides, in true Italian form. "How do you think I felt?"

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" But even as the words are coming out of his mouth, he knows the answer. "It would've been a--"

"Distraction," Rizzo finishes along with him. "Exactly. 'Course, nobody seemed to care whether it was distracting to _me_ ," he adds, with a frankly hilarious attempt at seeming wounded.

Kris snorts. "You're always distracted."

"You're always distracting," Rizzo shoots back, and he's grinning but Kris can see the change in him as he says it, the slight edge of the best kind of danger. Kris has been out with Rizzo enough to have seen all his moves a dozen times over, and this is unmistakably a move, but somehow, his knowing that--knowing that it's for him--makes it more effective, rather than less. Rizzo shakes his head a little and closes the minimal distance between them, slipping a couple of fingers up underneath Kris' t-shirt to trace the line of his waistband. Kris' dick twitches, and he bites back a groan. Given the rapidly multiplying length of the Rizzo-themed to-do list that's populating itself in his head right now, maybe the whole _wait till after the season_ approach had been for the best after all.

"Seriously, man," Rizzo's telling him now, meeting his eyes, quiet and intent and so devastatingly sincere that it makes Kris light-headed. "So fucking distracting. Like, since the day I met you. And not just because you're ridiculously hot, though I'm not gonna lie to you, that doesn't hurt."

"Yeah, well." Kris swallows hard, smiles at him and runs his hand up the length of Rizzo's forearm. "Right back at you on all counts."

Rizzo lights up at that, the bright golden glow of a midsummer day game, the kind that begs for two.

"I'm still annoyed that the three of you conspired without me," Kris feels compelled to point out for the sake of his dignity, but he can't even pretend to mean it. Realistically, any even vaguely negative emotion is gonna have to call him back in about a month.

Rizzo shrugs and raises an eyebrow. "I got an idea how I can make it up to you."

It's cheesy, but it's Rizzo and his smile is sly and thrilled and just a tiny bit self-mocking so it fucking _works_ ; Kris starts laughing again, and Rizzo's laughing, too, right up through the part where he plants one big hand in the center of Kris' chest and pushes. Kris' back hits the wall at almost the same time that Rizzo's mouth covers his, hot and sure, and Kris' brain abruptly, mercifully shuts down, leaving him with nothing but pure physical sensation. It's the same eye-of-the-hurricane certainty of squaring up a ball right on the sweet spot and feeling the whole solar system lined up behind it just for a split second, only now he gets to stay in it: for the first time in as long as he can remember, there's no pressure, no next hurdle to be conquered, just Rizzo's tongue mapping his mouth, the rasp of their breath in the small room, the flex and stretch of muscle under Kris' hands.

"We should stop," Rizzo murmurs at some point during that blissful eternity, though the way he scrapes his teeth along Kris' collarbone after he says it kind of undermines his point.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right, okay." Dragging himself about a quarter of the way to coherent, Kris discovers that he's got both hands down the back of Rizzo's pants, which he should probably do something about, any second now. The last-out ball is still in Rizzo's pocket, pressing against Kris' knuckles. "I mean, this isn't even our ballpark."

Rizzo stops short at that, before he dissolves into snickering against Kris' neck. "Shit, that's a really good point. We're like the worst houseguests ever." He pulls back a little, enough for a mock glare. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Kristopher."

"Listen," Kris protests, enjoying the pleasant weight of Rizzo draped against him, "I was just minding my own business, you're the one who stalked me in here like a…" It's been a long night. "... stalker."

"Oh, man." Rizzo clucks his tongue sadly. "Buddy. That's so…" He pats Kris on the cheek. "I'm gonna let you take a mulligan on that one, okay? Let's try again."

"Shut up," Kris tells him, and then proceeds to shut him up with maybe the only thing that can.

By the time he's done, Rizzo's eyes are glazed and his cheeks are flushed rosy red under the smears of his eye-black. "Good save," he manages.

Humility is normally one of Kris' central tenets, but just this one time, he's going to let himself feel unbearably smug. "Thank you." Discipline is also one of his central tenets, which is how he knows he's right on the edge of losing it, but he leans in one more time, just one last--

"Bryzzo!" comes a shout from the hallway, not quite outside the door but a lot closer than Kris would like. He and Rizzo jump apart like magnets flipped the wrong way. "Where the fuck are you guys?"

"Shit," Rizzo hisses, but he's laughing, trying to arrange his t-shirt as best he can to cover the bulge of his hard-on. Kris hurries to do the same, and scrubs a hand through his hair while he's at it, which, given that his hair is full of champagne, probably does more harm than good.

"BRYZZOOOO!" The door bangs open, revealing Rossy and Dex with their arms slung around each other, and looking at them, Kris realizes immediately that his frantic attempts to make himself presentable were completely wasted. Not only because their teammates are completely wasted, but because they're just as disheveled as Kris and Rizzo are, if not more so.

"There it is!" Dex shouts, pointing at the trophy like he's identifying the murderer in an old cop show.

"Shame on you boys," Ross says in his best dad voice. He crosses to the desk and gathers the trophy up in his arms, cooing. "Did they hurt you, baby?"

"Can't believe y'all, in here having a three-way with the World Series trophy; that is a precious piece of baseball history," Dex says disapprovingly, and there is no way-- _no way_ \--that he knows how close he is to the truth, but Kris is basically delirious and his poker face is pretty bad under the best of circumstances and Rizzo is a hopeless liar, always, and--

"Hooooooly shit." As he looks back and forth between them, Dex's smile grows exponentially, until it's taking over his whole face. "You did, didn't you? Oh my _god_."

"Not with the trophy," Kris feels it's important to clarify, which only makes Dex cackle with glee, doubling over as the sound echoes in the small room.

After a few--an _incredibly long_ few--seconds, though, he trails off, his face falls, and he levels an accusatory finger at them instead. "Aww, man, so many people had tonight in the pool! Y'all suck," he informs them. "I mean I love you and I'm happy for you and it's about fucking time, but you _suck_." And with that, he stumbles back into the hallway; they can hear him yelling, "Javy! Get the kitty, it's payout time!" before his voice disappears into the general chaos.

That leaves them alone with Rossy, who props the trophy on his hip and fixes them both with a stern look. "Were you safe?" he asks them solemnly. "Did you use protection?"

"You're gonna need protection," Rizzo grumbles, but underneath his unconvincing scowl, Kris can see that he's watching Rossy carefully, waiting. Kris finds himself holding his breath, getting a brief flashback to when he and Jessica had told their families about their engagement.

Ross' expression softens. "Rizz. Come on." He walks over and hooks an arm around Rizzo's neck, pulling him down to kiss his forehead. Then he crosses to Kris and does the same thing, apparently for good measure. He looks back at Rizzo. "Okay?"

Rizzo's eyes are shiny, and he throws himself at Ross, flinging both arms around him--and the trophy--in a bear hug. Kris hears Ross sniff, and that's it: he goes over to put his arms around them both, his own eyes welling up for the millionth time in the past few hours. Rizzo's hand finds his and clutches tight.

Eventually, Rossy shifts a bit. "Shit, this thing is not built for group hugs, I think I've got at least two pennants in my jugular," he says, muffled, and they all break apart with watery chuckles.

"Better get it back out there before they come after us," Rizzo says, hoarse, swiping a hand across his eyes.

"Yeah," Ross agrees, "plus," and there's an unholy light in his face now, "there's a _lot_ more plastic out there for whatever you were doing in here, I'm just sayin'."

"Nope," Kris says immediately, earning himself unrepentant laughter in return. He's getting a terrifyingly vivid picture of what their conversations with their teammates are going to be like for the next, well, ever.

Still laughing, Ross heads for the door; Kris is busy trying to remember how his legs work when Rizzo grabs his arm.

"Hey." His voice is pitched low, and his face is doing that hushed, brilliant beaming thing again, which Kris is pretty sure he's never going to get tired of. "You know I love you, right?"

And of all the easy questions Kris has been asked tonight, it's the biggest softball, as well as maybe the only important one. He grins, putting everything he has into beaming right back. "'Course I do. I love you too, obviously. And," he adds, gesturing to the ball in Rizzo's back pocket, "we definitely had a three-way with that, by the way."

Rizzo's eyes go round and delighted. _"Nice,"_ he whispers, and holds out his hand behind him for a low-five as he turns toward the door, during which Kris congratulates himself for _not_ grabbing his ass and only taking a bit of extra time to let their fingers tangle together.

Then, "Hey, lovebirds!" Ross calls from the hallway. "Plastic!" And Rizzo yells back,

"Save it for your Depends, grandpa!" and on that note, they head out to rejoin their team.


End file.
